dan we is of dem. Look yu!”
Yevette put her head down and ran into a group of hens. There was a great explosion of flapping wings and flying feathers, and the hens were jumping up onto the mattresses, and the girl with no name was screaming and screaming and kicking at the hens with her Dunlop Green Flash trainers. Suddenly she stopped screaming and pointed. I could not see where she was pointing because there were hen feathers everywhere, falling down in the bright beams of sunshine from the skylights. Her pointing finger was trembling and she was whispering, “Look! Look! My child!”
All of us girls were looking, but when the feathers finished falling there was nothing there. The girl with no name, she was just smiling at a bright beam of sunlight on the clean grey painted floor. There were tears falling from her eyes. “My child,” she said, and she held her arms outstretched towards the beam of light. I watched her fingers trembling.
I looked at Yevette and the sari girl. The sari girl looked down at the floor. Yevette shrugged at me. I looked back at the girl with no name and I spoke to her. “What is your child’s name?”
The girl with no name smiled. Her face shone. “This is Aabirah. She is my youngest. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I looked at the place she was looking. “Yes. She is lovely.” I looked at Yevette and made my eyes wide at her. “Isn’t she lovely, Yevette?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. She a rill heartbrekka. What yu say yu callin her?”
“Aabirah.”
“Dat’s nice. Lissen, Aa-BI-rah, why don’t yu come wid me, an help me chase de fowls outta dis barn?”
And so Yevette and the sari girl and the youngest daughter of the girl with no name, they started chasing the hens out of the building. Me, I sat and held the hand of the girl with no name. I said, “Your daughter is very helpful. Look how she chases those hens.” The girl with no name, she was smiling. I was smiling too. I think it was nice for both of us that she had her daughter back.
If I was telling this story to the girls from back home, then one of the new words I would have to explain to them is ‘efficiency’. We refugees are very efficient. We do not have the things we need—our children, for example—and so we are clever at making things stretch a little further. Just see what that girl with no name could make out of one little patch of sunlight. Or look how the sari girl could fit the entire colour of yellow into one empty see-through plastic bag.
I lay back on the bed and looked up at the chains. I was thinking, That sunshine, that colour yellow, maybe I will not see very much of these now. Maybe the new colour of my life was grey. Two years in the grey detention centre, and now I was an illegal immigrant. That means, you are free until they catch you. That means, you live in a grey area. I thought about how I was going to live. I thought about the years, living as quiet as could be. Hiding my colours and living in the twilight and the shadows. I sighed, and I tried to breathe deeply. I wanted to cry when I looked up at those chains and thought about the colour grey. I was thinking, if the head of the United Nations telephoned one morning and said, Greetings, Little Bee, to you falls the great honour of designing a national flag for all the world’s refugees , then the flag I would make would be grey. You would not need any particular fabric to make it. I would say that the flag could be any shape and it could be made with anything you had. A worn-out old brassiere, for example, that has been washed so many times it has become grey. You could fly it on the end of a broom handle, if you did not have a flag-pole. Although if you did have a spare flag-pole, for example, in that line of tall white flag-poles outside the United Nations building in New York City, then I think that old grey brassiere would make a fine spectacle, flying in the long colourful line of flags. I would fly it between the Stars and Stripes and
Yevette put her head down and ran into a group of hens. There was a great explosion of flapping wings and flying feathers, and the hens were jumping up onto the mattresses, and the girl with no name was screaming and screaming and kicking at the hens with her Dunlop Green Flash trainers. Suddenly she stopped screaming and pointed. I could not see where she was pointing because there were hen feathers everywhere, falling down in the bright beams of sunshine from the skylights. Her pointing finger was trembling and she was whispering, “Look! Look! My child!”
All of us girls were looking, but when the feathers finished falling there was nothing there. The girl with no name, she was just smiling at a bright beam of sunlight on the clean grey painted floor. There were tears falling from her eyes. “My child,” she said, and she held her arms outstretched towards the beam of light. I watched her fingers trembling.
I looked at Yevette and the sari girl. The sari girl looked down at the floor. Yevette shrugged at me. I looked back at the girl with no name and I spoke to her. “What is your child’s name?”
The girl with no name smiled. Her face shone. “This is Aabirah. She is my youngest. Isn’t she beautiful?”
I looked at the place she was looking. “Yes. She is lovely.” I looked at Yevette and made my eyes wide at her. “Isn’t she lovely, Yevette?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. She a rill heartbrekka. What yu say yu callin her?”
“Aabirah.”
“Dat’s nice. Lissen, Aa-BI-rah, why don’t yu come wid me, an help me chase de fowls outta dis barn?”
And so Yevette and the sari girl and the youngest daughter of the girl with no name, they started chasing the hens out of the building. Me, I sat and held the hand of the girl with no name. I said, “Your daughter is very helpful. Look how she chases those hens.” The girl with no name, she was smiling. I was smiling too. I think it was nice for both of us that she had her daughter back.
If I was telling this story to the girls from back home, then one of the new words I would have to explain to them is ‘efficiency’. We refugees are very efficient. We do not have the things we need—our children, for example—and so we are clever at making things stretch a little further. Just see what that girl with no name could make out of one little patch of sunlight. Or look how the sari girl could fit the entire colour of yellow into one empty see-through plastic bag.
I lay back on the bed and looked up at the chains. I was thinking, That sunshine, that colour yellow, maybe I will not see very much of these now. Maybe the new colour of my life was grey. Two years in the grey detention centre, and now I was an illegal immigrant. That means, you are free until they catch you. That means, you live in a grey area. I thought about how I was going to live. I thought about the years, living as quiet as could be. Hiding my colours and living in the twilight and the shadows. I sighed, and I tried to breathe deeply. I wanted to cry when I looked up at those chains and thought about the colour grey. I was thinking, if the head of the United Nations telephoned one morning and said, Greetings, Little Bee, to you falls the great honour of designing a national flag for all the world’s refugees , then the flag I would make would be grey. You would not need any particular fabric to make it. I would say that the flag could be any shape and it could be made with anything you had. A worn-out old brassiere, for example, that has been washed so many times it has become grey. You could fly it on the end of a broom handle, if you did not have a flag-pole. Although if you did have a spare flag-pole, for example, in that line of tall white flag-poles outside the United Nations building in New York City, then I think that old grey brassiere would make a fine spectacle, flying in the long colourful line of flags. I would fly it between the Stars and Stripes and
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